


What is Dark Within Me

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Sam, M/M, Masturbation, Omega Dean, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scent Marking, Teen Sam, Timestamp, Young Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s suddenly, viciously terrified for Dean, because his Alpha’s dead silent, tight buzz underneath his skin, entwined in bone.</p><p>Wherein Sam's aflame, and Dean's too close to the blaze.</p><p>Timestamp from Sam's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Dark Within Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title is, once again, graced by Dante.

Sam’s sixteen and a half when he begins to scent-mark Dean.

He hates doing it, and that’s an understatement if he’s ever made one. He execrates the act, detests the fact that his damn knot-brain has made it impossible to see Dean leaving the house without slathering him in Alpha-smell.

Part of it, he’s aware, is the burning desire to see Dean protected. Whatever mutilation John’s done to Dean has prevented him from ever once going into heat, and while that’s good news for Sam, it doesn’t change the fact that his brother is pretty.

A pretty Omega with a faint scent of something breathtaking.

John used to scent them both, when they were younger, clinical thing, quick and painless, and stopped doing it to Sammy when he declared. Stopped with Dean too, around that time, cautious eyes flicking over at Sammy, ignoring what he had already seen.

If Dean was ever going to be scented again, it’d be by him.

He held out for an eternity. Sam tackled his soul-crushing denial of instincts with the same fervor he undertook with everything else.

Exorbitantly.

Put every tendril of himself he had into the endeavor. It came with some side effects. He couldn’t touch his brother. Stray contact was strategically positively punished. Sam growled every time Dean crossed a boundary, until finally, Dean realized that Sam didn’t want his hands anywhere near him, any longer.

Sam’s head hangs lower, and he lets his palm brush against the scorching concrete beneath his fingertips. It’s summer in New Mexico, Albuquerque to be exact, and it’s not a damn joke. Sam can feel his hair, sweat slick on the nape of his neck, curling softly around his ears.

Sam rises, bones creaking underneath him, joints not tearing him apart, inside out, as often as they used to. Still wakes up after midnight yelling bloody murder, but some of that is from nightmares he won’t ever elude. Nightmares of Dean ripped apart by a Wendigo, body splattered in chunks of skin and marrow, product of a shifter.

Same shifter wearing Dean’s face, wearing his disdainful smile for all things not directly Sammy related. Sam tremors despite the stifling heat. Dry heat is a sight better than that of Miami, and that’s a fact.

Dean’s never late.

Not for Sam. No matter if they’re fighting, something they do a lot more than Sam would like, but, what’re you gonna do about it.

Sam’s abruptly concerned, peels sticky polyester basketball shorts away from his thigh. Grimaces at the layer of dirt and sweat that connects his clothing to skin. La Cueva High School colors are navy blue, silver and white, and he’s thankful the shorts are so dark that he can’t see what’s going on beneath them.

They’ll be here two months. Sam’s got that on good authority, this time, too. He’s not stupid enough to believe in wide open, blank checks and promises, requires facts and binding legal documents. Everything stained in a blood pact and consigned to memory.

Dad hasn’t been gone for this long since Sam was twelve years old, perpetually fighting with Dean over whether or not Scooby Doo was better than Ninja Turtles (it was)

unpopular opinion at the time (still is), but Sam’s never based himself on convention, regardless.

Sam tugs his jersey over his head, number 14, 6’3 now, towering over Dean like it’s his God-given right. Been here so long he picked up a sport, any sport. He’s got to have physical activity, unexpected, variation in movement, not drills night and day.

Sparring lessons that make him want to fight unjustly, snarl one good time, Alpha growl, make Dean _submit_

Spread legs and dignity for Sam to just _takehaveown_

Sam’s alone, in front of the school, and there’s no one around to hear the feral snarl he lets loose. It’s considered impolite to revert to baser instincts in polite society. Sam’s a point guard, all ball handles and precision, shoots threes like he’s done nothing but practice since exiting the womb sixteen years prior.

Threes look like targets to him, closes his eyes and the regulation ball feels like smooth metal, Magnum curled in his right hand, years of practice at managing the recoil. Lesser men have attempted to shoot with one hand and broken their wrists, clean snap.

Sam squints into the distance, can see the phantom waves of heat rippling above the ground. He hears Dean’s ‘67 before he sees it, can hear Boston’s More Than A Feeling blaring at top volume, and Sam can barely contain his eye roll as he tucks his jersey in his backpack and slings it over one sunburnt shoulder.

Dean’s got his jacket stuck between himself and the seat, wife beater on, and Sam knows he’s hot, knows he must be scorching, cause Dean always wears a shirt, is only hedonistic when he actually wants something. When he’s flirty with soft omega women, smooth skin and slick pussies, gaping and hungry for whatever Dean decides to feed them.

Dean’s scrubbing a hand over a sweat-slick face when Sam dumps his bag in the backseat and levers his body down, joints tightening like clockwork. There’s the foul he took from Jackson today.

Dean’s smiling, little constrained thing, hand not on the wheel curved around his neck. Sam looks idly at his armpit, the hair down there is lighter than the hair on Dean’s head, although Dean’s hair bleaches in the sun, facts of life.

“Sorry I’m late, Sammy.” He taps his knuckles faintly against the wheel, giving Sam a reluctant look as he turns down Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, glaring as if Sam has personally affronted him with his lack of musical acumen.

Sam leans slightly in Dean’s direction, angling to lock his seatbelt, damn thing doesn’t stretch as far as it used to, nevermind that Sam’s bigger than he’s ever been before, when he stiffens.

Entire body shutters closed and he scents the air, eyes trained forward on the windshield. Dean’s driving, humming low in his throat, wife beater clinging to overheated skin, and Sam can make out one dusky nipple, moist with the humidity.

Sam can feel his pulse clicking in his throat, dry and acerbic, Alpha moderated heartbeat. Sam’s afraid. He’s suddenly, viciously terrified for Dean, because his Alpha’s dead silent, tight buzz underneath his skin, entwined in bone.

“Dean, why were you late?” Sam doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Neither does Dean, apparently, because he shifts a little, eyes darting from the road to Sam’s face. He rests a tan hand on his jeans, tapping out a melody.

“I was hangin’ out and lost track of time.” Dean snorts. “Sorry I wasn’t there at ass o’clock, when you needed me, princess.”

Sam’s willing his Alpha to start scratching, do anything normal, make his presence known, but he’s dead silent, heat of Alpha blood curled up.

Alpha’s _waiting._

Dean glances at Sam, lips turned in a frown. “Got you some shit.” He jerks a thumb at the backseat and Sam _cannot_ move right now because he’s sure that one quick twist of his body will unleash the monster, let him tear every strip of skin from Dean’s tendons until he reaches that clean, undiluted scent of propriety.

Sam shudder-sighs, fingers digging into forearms.

They’re pulling into their temporary home, pueblo style, nice place, up for rent while the family vacations in Austria. Stuccoed walls painted in earth tones, flat roof. Sam could consider a career in forgery, if he was so inclined. Socials and background checks immaculate, Sam even gave them a dog. Named it Orion, just for Dean.

Sam allows Dean to exit the car first, hears Dean whistling the riff to Fade to Black. He moves from the car slowly, blood rushing in his ears.

He leaves his backpack and shirt behind, presses warm hands to the burning black of the Impala’s roof, hopes the singe can ground him, cause he never knew it was possible to be this damned lethally enraged.

Dean sticks his head out of the open doorway. “Hey, Ben Franklin! You coming inside any time soon or you out here workin’ on your tan?” He leaves Sam’s sight without waiting for an answer, and Sam trudges up three steps, closing the door behind him soundlessly.

“Why do you smell like that?”

It’s posed as a question but it isn’t one, not really. There’s Alpha ringing in the dead air and Sam watches Dean’s back tighten imperceptibly, watches his brother slide bare feet in the direction of the kitchen, cotton on his body almost translucent.

“Like what, Sam.”

It’s Sam, now.

Sam’s turning the corner sharply, and _there he is_ sound and fury, graceless pandemonium before he unleashes himself like a geyser. Incisors extract themselves forcefully and Sam hisses with the sudden flare of pain.

Sam might actually shift.

He knows how, he’s good at governing it, he’s always learned things in the most efficient manner possible. No one ever does so unless you live traditionally, live out in a pack, in wolf territories, but Jesus Christ he’s never been so out of control that his wolf is bursting from his skin.

Dean’s around the corner so quickly he stumbles a little, catches himself on the edge of the granite counter. He reaches out for Sam with frantic fingers, seafoam eyes roaming around his brother in terror.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

That’s all Alpha and though Sam regrets it instantaneously, it has the desired effect. Dean’s arm slaps back down against his side violently, and his brother’s forehead is creased with fear. “Sam. Sammy you gotta breathe, man.”

He doesn’t move any closer and for his sake, Sam is grateful. He’s brutally conscious of the fact that he could kill Dean right now.

It’s a strange moment to become aware that he’s stronger than his brother, probably has been for quite some time now. Because he and Dean have been trained so vigorously, Dean’s more of an equal match than any other Omega would be, but he could snap his brother like a twig. Hold him off with one hand if he really gave Dean _everything._

Even a fragment of everything would rip ligaments to shreds, splatter Dean all over this nice granite breakfast nook, push air from collapsed lungs and darken the only light Sam’s ever known how to see.

His eyes clear, a fraction. This is enough. Alpha’s still riding the surface, way too close to maim for Sam’s comfort, but he can look up now, see that Dean’s shaking, arms wrapped around himself.

“Why. Don’t. You. Smell. Like. Me.”

Sam doesn’t mean to grit it out this way, and if he had any higher cognitive functioning he would have made a ploy for finesse. As it is, he only demands to know why his brother doesn’t smell marked, the same way he does every morning, when Sam sleepily lays claim to him.

He meant to say pack, meant to ask “why don’t you smell like pack,” but he’s positive the slight will go unnoticed. Dean’s features contort, and that admission is almost enough to have his Alpha pressing at his brain again, fever-pitch.

“Dean.” He says, knuckles braced on the dining room table, soft butter wood, surrounded by intricately molded iron chairs.

“Just had a little fun, Sam. You gotta--” Sam can hear Dean’s audible gulp, his senses are so fixated on his brother, “you gotta calm down, man.”

Fun. Dean was just having fun.

He understands, now. Dean doesn’t smell like pack, and that would bother the Alpha of any household, Sam just doesn’t think it would be to this feral, primal degree. Dean’s got Sam’s scent covered, has it _masked_ by another Alpha’s fucking goddamned seed--

Sam shoves himself from behind the table, knees almost locked in place as he crosses over to his brother. Dean’s immobile, transfixed on Sam’s face. “Sam. Sam, man. You in there? What do you need?” Sam stops, a few inches hanging between he and his brother. Dean looks up, has to bend his neck a bit to reach Sam’s eyes, and shivers.

Sam’s cognizant of the fact that he’s hard as a rock. Looks at his dick and firmly curls quaking fingers around his erection, eyes trained on Dean’s face. Dean’s gaze flicks down and his pretty mouth hardens. “Ah, Sam. Not like that, man. I won’t cover it up again.”

Sam pulls his shorts down just below his sack, lets the elastic form an impromptu shelf for his balls and knot. This might be the least sexual thing he’s ever done. He twists his wrist sharply at the top, smoothing his shaft with pre-cum, dick deep purple, curving gently to the left.

Dean’s hands are punch-tight at his sides, he’s done talking, eyes looking at some distant corner over Sam’s head. “Look at me,” Sam growls, tone indistinguishable. There’s no Alpha in that, Dean can ignore it, but he eyeballs his brother nonetheless, never one to back down first.

Sam can smell resignation, as if Dean knows he’s done wrong, intentionally pissed off an Alpha in the highest degree one can do. “Lift up your shirt.”

Dean moves automatically, rolling it until it’s settled just over brown-pink nipples, pebbling slightly in the breeze. Sam’s coming on that note, splattering Dean from chest to navel, one hand squeezing his knot and preventing its expansion.

There’s no satisfaction in this.

Sam tucks himself away gingerly, smooths his cum into Dean’s skin with both hands, methodical, Alpha purring in release and gratification. Dean pulls his shirt down when Sam’s done, looks everywhere but at hazel.

“Shit’s on the table, Sam.” He exits, stage right, bumping his hip against the counter on his way, light hiss of discomfort.

Sam eyes the nondescript black plastic bag resting on the side table beside the counter, and he drags it down to the cool mosaic floor before following suit. Wraps arms around his legs like a child, untamed beast inside him sated, curling up and dozing like he’s a gentle giant.

Precious creature, bemused until he’s crossed.

Sam reaches in the bag and tugs out a shirt, unfolds it carefully, lays it out on the floor.

Nevermind, by Nirvana, looks up at him.

_ Original art and all, Sammy. _

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorites, thus far. I hope it was as wild a ride for you as it was for me.


End file.
